Face Down Poem by GRANT FRASER

I imagine
your tired
earth,

but who
isn't

I mean
eternity,

without
a world,

or another
word,

is daunting,

a frozen
sentence
of skulls

dangling
over
your infinite
bed,

unless
of course,

we wake
up somewhere
else,
or on an
antiseptic
aluminium table,

with alien
fingers pressing
you down,
like a button,

stop! ! ! !

I imagine
there
won't be
much of anything
anywhere anyway,

I just feel
like that
crumbling
sense of why
bother?

I now tear
the pages
away
that used
to uplift me,

envision
myself,
lying on
a deserted beach
face down
with a A4 sheet
crammed
into my mouth,

with heavy grains
of sand clinging
to my wet eye lids,

and sea water
running
in,

then out...